Fic: The Saint and The Sinnerman
Title: The Saint and The Sinnerman
Author: louie x
Rating: R
Series: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Moriarty/Moran
Word Count: 2452
Disclaimer: Spoilers for Reichenbach Fall. Totally not mine in any way, merely playing with the medium.
A/N: Thanks again, as always to my beta-pixie, and homfg this show.
Summary: Idle hands take an idea seeded from a conversation into true form. Or, meet Sebastian Moran.
He's lucky dramatics are something of a speciality of his. Flash, bang, a reddened explosion, and enough piped in for a slow bleed. Even with all the jostling of Sherlock's grabbing at his coat, nothing was moved out of place.
So when the blank went off -smoke and a sour taste in his mouth- the squib exploded out from where it was tucked beneath his slicked back hair. He felt his body protest falling so limply to the tarmac surface. There will be bruises, but within the aches there will be such wonderful memories.
All the while laying there, listening to Sherlock's last will and testament on the phone to one Doctor John Watson. It was quaint, his utterly annoying attachment to a completely boring man; but he had said it once before, it was worth examining further.
He stays on the roof only long enough to watch the man tip over. A giddy tickle rushing through his stomach and into his feet, pooling in his middle; a rush of pleasure who's precise meaning there was no need to ignore. He rose to his feet, wiped off the blood from the side of his face, and calmly walked down the fire escape on the south side of the building.
He'd need something to keep his attention. What with the one interesting person gone and all.
Two chafing weeks pass before he slips into an underground fight club; hunting.
He ignores the current fight, already in progress and not going to last more than two minutes, judging by the limp of the taller fighter and the low hang of the shoulder of the other. Boring, boring, boring.
Men are taking bets, pacing around a small huddled group of men, while the two waiting fighters are sitting off to the side of a small roped off ring. He walks up to the smoother-faced of the two of them; tall and lean, his face bears signs of age and use but not of consistent battery. The other man has a lingering yellow tint beneath his right eye and the scars of stitches upon his brow; he was a man who had lost many times.
"What are your odds?" he asks. The fighter looked up from his taped up hands, eyeing the suit before him. While not quite understanding the question, eyes ran the length of of him. "If I were to put ten grand on you, would you win?"
"Course I would."
"Take a dive then, I'll put down ten times as much on your opponent, and split the winnings with me."
The man looks insulted, then -almost as if he cannot help himself- just a bit curious. "Why the hell should I do that?" All he has to do is introduce him; a hand extended, and a quiet 'Jim Moriarty' to get a reaction.
Jim smiles as the man shakes his hand, undecided but Jim is relaxed in the knowledge that he'll take the deal. Money already in the hands of bettors on the weaker, usual punching bag will return nearly fifteen fold by the odds he's reckoned. The chosen loser of the match (his name was Sebastian) took a beautiful dive about four minutes in; a series of lucky head shots believably knocking him down.
He bleeds over the bedsheets. It's an idle observation, Jim realizes, but it fascinates him nevertheless. He'd brought the fighter back to a flat he owned nearby. Cleaned him up, let him sleep. Sebastian had a split lip and a swollen eye that would turn ugly come morning.
That pretty face had been battered and bruised. Maybe even a few loose teeth --no matter, Jim had a fantastic dentist that he'd been blackmailing for free visits for years.
Jim watches him sleep, breathe, shift, and turn. Red stains smearing over the thousand count linen pillowcase as he turns his face against it. An amusing thought trickles through Jim's mind, he should encourage him to sleep with his face pressed toward the pillow; just to watch his clotting blood adhere skin to fabric for that momentary panic upon his first waking.
He sits, bristling with potential and ideation, in a chair beside the bed all night. Waiting while Sebastian did the far, far more boring thing of sleeping.
Indulging himself, he keeps his thumbs busy researching. He's delighted with his gut's instinctive want of this man when he finds his military past, his accolades as a sniper, the medals, and even his less than honorable discharge that left dear Sebastian in a position to take up fighting for cash. Especially the notations on his record of anger-issues, citations for insubordinate behaviors, and reports of making his fellow soldiers feel 'unsafe'.
Money is such a fluid, meaningless thing; it will never cease to fascinate Jim to see just what people are willing to do for a few measly numbers. It inspires him.
Sebastian wakes up, only five hours and seventeen minutes later, shortly after dawn. He does peel himself gingerly from where his mouth had fused to the bedding and is tender with the ribs that took several sharp knuckle-pointed jabs. Glancing around, he doesn't see where Jim's tucked himself away to watch unseen. Instead, Jim watches the soft smile curl around the man's ruined mouth as he reaches out for the piles of money dumped atop his legs and spread over the rest of the bed.
It was approximately two-hundred thousand pounds, but Jim wasn't expecting the man to actually sit there and count it. He's impressed to see the one good eye glance up and around, looking for him rather than at all the zeroes sitting quite literally in his lap.
Jim steps out from his hiding place. He's no longer in his neat suit, but in something comfortable. Bare feet making no sound on the turkish rugs that he crosses to close the space between them.
"I've been told that I'm an extremely generous employer. You could want for nothing, Mr. Moran. "
Sebastian considers it. His gaze turns back down to the money beneath his hands. Deliberately, gingerly, the man pushes back the blankets that cover him -the money with it- and gets to his feet. "Everybody wants something," he replies. "What do you want?"
Without Sherlock to keep him occupied, Jim doesn't actually know anymore. His heart still soars and aches at the thought of someone so interesting gone because of the boring, all-too-human attachment to 'friends'. Kept things, better than animals because at least they could clean up after themselves, that Sherlock valued more than himself. The attachment killed him, Jim knows as much, and it is hard to take credit for the suicide no matter how hard he pushed the genius to the edge.
What does he want? He wants to die, if he really thinks about it for too long. Everything is so tediously dull in this life. He needs surprises, things he cannot anticipate. Perhaps, quite suddenly, he understands Sherlock's attachment to his dear doctor, because a fool's gaze changes the perception of even the most brilliant of views.
Sebastian is bold. He steps closer to Jim than anyone has dared to do in some time. He's taller than Jim, so he tips his head down just enough to level his one opened eye. "Boss?" he asks, quiet and already subservient; Jim snaps his focus back to the man in front of him.
Jim smiles, sharp and long. "Don't bore me. I hate being bored."
---
As much as he likes the solo-act, walking into a room and having his presence alone silence the masses, there is something to having an imposing shadow at one's back. Jim loathed the redirection of his audience's eyes at first, but Sebastian preens beneath the attention and he makes sure to pay Jim back in kind for it. He is all razor sharp lines in expensive suits and a five-hundred pound haircut, bruises long gone from his face to leave Sebastian looking neat and crisp.
Sharp like a blade's edge, but carefully sheathed at Jim's back, slashing only at his beckoning. Sometimes, he sends the man out just to prove he can. A simple gesture of his fingers or clearing of his throat and a predetermined target is on the ground in barely a breath's time. One quick silent shot to the leg, then a knife to the throat. It's messy and showy, but the bleeding, gasping body takes several long minutes to die. Asphyxiating on his own blood, drowning at their feet.
It ensures that Jim has everybody's attention. Meanwhile, Sebastian wipes his gloved hands on the dead man's handkerchief. Calm and casual, eyes only for his boss and his commands. The thrill of power always keeps a churning warmth in Jim's gut.
He thinks of John Watson, the unwavering faith and obvious adoration the man had for Sherlock, and wonders if that same feeling was conjured in the detective from the tangible weight of another man's awe. He wonders if Sherlock gave in to simpler pleasures, tapping that heat and allowing it's release on tanned flesh or pitiful three-hundred count sheets.
Jim can picture them, tangled together; Sherlock all pale and lean, John stouter but firm in ways that only come from service and war. Scars and fingertips touching, memorizing, the intimate lines known only to those who'd dare call themselves lovers. He thinks they would be romantic about it, they would kiss and Sherlock would catalogue every bit of stimulus, all the sounds he could get John to make.
Back to work, he chides. Deals to be made, dead men should not distract him so.
Sebastian never has a place of his own. He is always in tow, always at Jim's side; and where ever Jim plants himself -for an hour, for the night, for the month- Sebastian lingers.
He doesn't bat an eye when Jim crawls into bed with him. Jim takes his time on occasion, but for the most part he drags his mouth in carefully preplanned lines over the man's body. Tasting the dip of his hip, bone grinding against his teeth as he bites hard enough to leave a mark but not enough to bleed. Shoulder blades differ, as does the line of his spine beneath the taut muscles that string the man together. Another lighter bite along the inside of the man's bicep as he's turned onto his back. He pauses, mouth dragging down to the inside of Sebastian's elbow, tongue pressing flat and hard there just to feel the thump of the man's pulse. So very, very alive.
Jim puts his hands around Sebastian's throat and squeezes. Hard enough for the man's face to turn colors and for fingers to bunch in Jim's hair tight enough to threaten pulling the strands out. He releases his grasp just enough to hear the ragged gasp of cold air rush in, the warmth of a nearly avoided death between them as Sebastian comes, dripping over his stomach and on his shirt. Jim watches the stains seep into the fabric; head cocked as he watches the rise and fall of Sebastian's stomach beneath the rucked up, ruined, fabric.
The man opens his eyes and pulls back his fist, connecting hard with Jim's jaw. It's a surprise and his stomach flips as he tumbles from the bed onto the floor. Their nights often end like this, tearing into one another just to see -feel- something. Jim thinks that Sebastian's seen too much, felt too much, that his detachment at Jim's hands grants him a sort of bridle upon his broken mind. He only lets go when commanded, save for when he reacts in private.
Another fist is pulled back, held high with the potential energy to smash in Jim's orbital bone and leave him broken for some time. Jim just smiles, blood on his teeth, and pulls Sebastian in closer. He licks at the man's mouth, pushing his aches in over Sebastian's tongue. Tongue fucking its way in next to molars and fillings as he grabs for Sebastian's hips with one hand; grinding his ruined boxers into Jim's expensive Westwood trousers. A hand strays from his lapel, pulling at the leather belt and zipper until Sebastian grabs for Jim's cock.
It's a funny thing, sex; Jim understood it's purpose and power, but never really reveled in it before. He hadn't found a use for it beyond practicality or certain associate's methodology. His own pleasures were based in his mind. His body was merely a vehicle for it, a peripheral notion. Sebastian, however, reminds Jim of the terrifying fact that he is trapped in his own personal prison of flesh and meat. He has wants and desires, his mind able to be wrangled tight into one sharp locus at this man's hands.
It's a thought that has Jim considering killing Sebastian. A terrifying, suffocating fury at the way this man can make him actually cry out, gladly, eagerly. His body overwhelming his mind in a way most undesirable yet addicting.
Ah well, another trip to the cleaners, Jim notes as he tries to catch his breath. Sebastian wheezes on the floor beside him. Curled up on his side, eyes closed, his neck bears the tell-tale marks of hands.
Jim moves closer, pushing Sebastian onto his back, settling atop him to enjoy the view. Blue eyes blink open as his head is tipped from side to side, Jim memorizing the early stages of the injury and calculating the length of recovery. He drags his tongue down the length of one imprinted palm and it leaves his mouth just at the base Sebastian's ear.
"You've never looked more lovely," he whispers. He'll get up, leaving Sebastian on the floor, and head off to his own room. After a shower, Jim climbs into bed merely to allow his body to rest while he stares at the ceiling. A glance at his phone shows the small hidden camera's point of view, Sebastian back in bed doing his best to sleep. His throat will not allow it though, Jim notices, and watches Sebastian fitfully rest in between coughing fits as his throat slowly swells.
There's no hiding the bruises beneath the crisp shirt collars. Jim smiles at new clients as they look to his shadow. They see the bruises of hands and the quick way that Sebastian dispatches the hidden guards in the room. No one could touch him if he didn't want it, they would think, and they would know only Jim could slay this beast at his back.
"Shall we talk, gentleman?" he asks, arms wide and inviting. A pleased smile grows as he hears, in the awe filled silence, Sebastian reloading his gun.
Author: louie x
Rating: R
Series: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Moriarty/Moran
Word Count: 2452
Disclaimer: Spoilers for Reichenbach Fall. Totally not mine in any way, merely playing with the medium.
A/N: Thanks again, as always to my beta-pixie, and homfg this show.
Summary: Idle hands take an idea seeded from a conversation into true form. Or, meet Sebastian Moran.
He's lucky dramatics are something of a speciality of his. Flash, bang, a reddened explosion, and enough piped in for a slow bleed. Even with all the jostling of Sherlock's grabbing at his coat, nothing was moved out of place.
So when the blank went off -smoke and a sour taste in his mouth- the squib exploded out from where it was tucked beneath his slicked back hair. He felt his body protest falling so limply to the tarmac surface. There will be bruises, but within the aches there will be such wonderful memories.
All the while laying there, listening to Sherlock's last will and testament on the phone to one Doctor John Watson. It was quaint, his utterly annoying attachment to a completely boring man; but he had said it once before, it was worth examining further.
He stays on the roof only long enough to watch the man tip over. A giddy tickle rushing through his stomach and into his feet, pooling in his middle; a rush of pleasure who's precise meaning there was no need to ignore. He rose to his feet, wiped off the blood from the side of his face, and calmly walked down the fire escape on the south side of the building.
He'd need something to keep his attention. What with the one interesting person gone and all.
Two chafing weeks pass before he slips into an underground fight club; hunting.
He ignores the current fight, already in progress and not going to last more than two minutes, judging by the limp of the taller fighter and the low hang of the shoulder of the other. Boring, boring, boring.
Men are taking bets, pacing around a small huddled group of men, while the two waiting fighters are sitting off to the side of a small roped off ring. He walks up to the smoother-faced of the two of them; tall and lean, his face bears signs of age and use but not of consistent battery. The other man has a lingering yellow tint beneath his right eye and the scars of stitches upon his brow; he was a man who had lost many times.
"What are your odds?" he asks. The fighter looked up from his taped up hands, eyeing the suit before him. While not quite understanding the question, eyes ran the length of of him. "If I were to put ten grand on you, would you win?"
"Course I would."
"Take a dive then, I'll put down ten times as much on your opponent, and split the winnings with me."
The man looks insulted, then -almost as if he cannot help himself- just a bit curious. "Why the hell should I do that?" All he has to do is introduce him; a hand extended, and a quiet 'Jim Moriarty' to get a reaction.
Jim smiles as the man shakes his hand, undecided but Jim is relaxed in the knowledge that he'll take the deal. Money already in the hands of bettors on the weaker, usual punching bag will return nearly fifteen fold by the odds he's reckoned. The chosen loser of the match (his name was Sebastian) took a beautiful dive about four minutes in; a series of lucky head shots believably knocking him down.
He bleeds over the bedsheets. It's an idle observation, Jim realizes, but it fascinates him nevertheless. He'd brought the fighter back to a flat he owned nearby. Cleaned him up, let him sleep. Sebastian had a split lip and a swollen eye that would turn ugly come morning.
That pretty face had been battered and bruised. Maybe even a few loose teeth --no matter, Jim had a fantastic dentist that he'd been blackmailing for free visits for years.
Jim watches him sleep, breathe, shift, and turn. Red stains smearing over the thousand count linen pillowcase as he turns his face against it. An amusing thought trickles through Jim's mind, he should encourage him to sleep with his face pressed toward the pillow; just to watch his clotting blood adhere skin to fabric for that momentary panic upon his first waking.
He sits, bristling with potential and ideation, in a chair beside the bed all night. Waiting while Sebastian did the far, far more boring thing of sleeping.
Indulging himself, he keeps his thumbs busy researching. He's delighted with his gut's instinctive want of this man when he finds his military past, his accolades as a sniper, the medals, and even his less than honorable discharge that left dear Sebastian in a position to take up fighting for cash. Especially the notations on his record of anger-issues, citations for insubordinate behaviors, and reports of making his fellow soldiers feel 'unsafe'.
Money is such a fluid, meaningless thing; it will never cease to fascinate Jim to see just what people are willing to do for a few measly numbers. It inspires him.
Sebastian wakes up, only five hours and seventeen minutes later, shortly after dawn. He does peel himself gingerly from where his mouth had fused to the bedding and is tender with the ribs that took several sharp knuckle-pointed jabs. Glancing around, he doesn't see where Jim's tucked himself away to watch unseen. Instead, Jim watches the soft smile curl around the man's ruined mouth as he reaches out for the piles of money dumped atop his legs and spread over the rest of the bed.
It was approximately two-hundred thousand pounds, but Jim wasn't expecting the man to actually sit there and count it. He's impressed to see the one good eye glance up and around, looking for him rather than at all the zeroes sitting quite literally in his lap.
Jim steps out from his hiding place. He's no longer in his neat suit, but in something comfortable. Bare feet making no sound on the turkish rugs that he crosses to close the space between them.
"I've been told that I'm an extremely generous employer. You could want for nothing, Mr. Moran. "
Sebastian considers it. His gaze turns back down to the money beneath his hands. Deliberately, gingerly, the man pushes back the blankets that cover him -the money with it- and gets to his feet. "Everybody wants something," he replies. "What do you want?"
Without Sherlock to keep him occupied, Jim doesn't actually know anymore. His heart still soars and aches at the thought of someone so interesting gone because of the boring, all-too-human attachment to 'friends'. Kept things, better than animals because at least they could clean up after themselves, that Sherlock valued more than himself. The attachment killed him, Jim knows as much, and it is hard to take credit for the suicide no matter how hard he pushed the genius to the edge.
What does he want? He wants to die, if he really thinks about it for too long. Everything is so tediously dull in this life. He needs surprises, things he cannot anticipate. Perhaps, quite suddenly, he understands Sherlock's attachment to his dear doctor, because a fool's gaze changes the perception of even the most brilliant of views.
Sebastian is bold. He steps closer to Jim than anyone has dared to do in some time. He's taller than Jim, so he tips his head down just enough to level his one opened eye. "Boss?" he asks, quiet and already subservient; Jim snaps his focus back to the man in front of him.
Jim smiles, sharp and long. "Don't bore me. I hate being bored."
---
As much as he likes the solo-act, walking into a room and having his presence alone silence the masses, there is something to having an imposing shadow at one's back. Jim loathed the redirection of his audience's eyes at first, but Sebastian preens beneath the attention and he makes sure to pay Jim back in kind for it. He is all razor sharp lines in expensive suits and a five-hundred pound haircut, bruises long gone from his face to leave Sebastian looking neat and crisp.
Sharp like a blade's edge, but carefully sheathed at Jim's back, slashing only at his beckoning. Sometimes, he sends the man out just to prove he can. A simple gesture of his fingers or clearing of his throat and a predetermined target is on the ground in barely a breath's time. One quick silent shot to the leg, then a knife to the throat. It's messy and showy, but the bleeding, gasping body takes several long minutes to die. Asphyxiating on his own blood, drowning at their feet.
It ensures that Jim has everybody's attention. Meanwhile, Sebastian wipes his gloved hands on the dead man's handkerchief. Calm and casual, eyes only for his boss and his commands. The thrill of power always keeps a churning warmth in Jim's gut.
He thinks of John Watson, the unwavering faith and obvious adoration the man had for Sherlock, and wonders if that same feeling was conjured in the detective from the tangible weight of another man's awe. He wonders if Sherlock gave in to simpler pleasures, tapping that heat and allowing it's release on tanned flesh or pitiful three-hundred count sheets.
Jim can picture them, tangled together; Sherlock all pale and lean, John stouter but firm in ways that only come from service and war. Scars and fingertips touching, memorizing, the intimate lines known only to those who'd dare call themselves lovers. He thinks they would be romantic about it, they would kiss and Sherlock would catalogue every bit of stimulus, all the sounds he could get John to make.
Back to work, he chides. Deals to be made, dead men should not distract him so.
Sebastian never has a place of his own. He is always in tow, always at Jim's side; and where ever Jim plants himself -for an hour, for the night, for the month- Sebastian lingers.
He doesn't bat an eye when Jim crawls into bed with him. Jim takes his time on occasion, but for the most part he drags his mouth in carefully preplanned lines over the man's body. Tasting the dip of his hip, bone grinding against his teeth as he bites hard enough to leave a mark but not enough to bleed. Shoulder blades differ, as does the line of his spine beneath the taut muscles that string the man together. Another lighter bite along the inside of the man's bicep as he's turned onto his back. He pauses, mouth dragging down to the inside of Sebastian's elbow, tongue pressing flat and hard there just to feel the thump of the man's pulse. So very, very alive.
Jim puts his hands around Sebastian's throat and squeezes. Hard enough for the man's face to turn colors and for fingers to bunch in Jim's hair tight enough to threaten pulling the strands out. He releases his grasp just enough to hear the ragged gasp of cold air rush in, the warmth of a nearly avoided death between them as Sebastian comes, dripping over his stomach and on his shirt. Jim watches the stains seep into the fabric; head cocked as he watches the rise and fall of Sebastian's stomach beneath the rucked up, ruined, fabric.
The man opens his eyes and pulls back his fist, connecting hard with Jim's jaw. It's a surprise and his stomach flips as he tumbles from the bed onto the floor. Their nights often end like this, tearing into one another just to see -feel- something. Jim thinks that Sebastian's seen too much, felt too much, that his detachment at Jim's hands grants him a sort of bridle upon his broken mind. He only lets go when commanded, save for when he reacts in private.
Another fist is pulled back, held high with the potential energy to smash in Jim's orbital bone and leave him broken for some time. Jim just smiles, blood on his teeth, and pulls Sebastian in closer. He licks at the man's mouth, pushing his aches in over Sebastian's tongue. Tongue fucking its way in next to molars and fillings as he grabs for Sebastian's hips with one hand; grinding his ruined boxers into Jim's expensive Westwood trousers. A hand strays from his lapel, pulling at the leather belt and zipper until Sebastian grabs for Jim's cock.
It's a funny thing, sex; Jim understood it's purpose and power, but never really reveled in it before. He hadn't found a use for it beyond practicality or certain associate's methodology. His own pleasures were based in his mind. His body was merely a vehicle for it, a peripheral notion. Sebastian, however, reminds Jim of the terrifying fact that he is trapped in his own personal prison of flesh and meat. He has wants and desires, his mind able to be wrangled tight into one sharp locus at this man's hands.
It's a thought that has Jim considering killing Sebastian. A terrifying, suffocating fury at the way this man can make him actually cry out, gladly, eagerly. His body overwhelming his mind in a way most undesirable yet addicting.
Ah well, another trip to the cleaners, Jim notes as he tries to catch his breath. Sebastian wheezes on the floor beside him. Curled up on his side, eyes closed, his neck bears the tell-tale marks of hands.
Jim moves closer, pushing Sebastian onto his back, settling atop him to enjoy the view. Blue eyes blink open as his head is tipped from side to side, Jim memorizing the early stages of the injury and calculating the length of recovery. He drags his tongue down the length of one imprinted palm and it leaves his mouth just at the base Sebastian's ear.
"You've never looked more lovely," he whispers. He'll get up, leaving Sebastian on the floor, and head off to his own room. After a shower, Jim climbs into bed merely to allow his body to rest while he stares at the ceiling. A glance at his phone shows the small hidden camera's point of view, Sebastian back in bed doing his best to sleep. His throat will not allow it though, Jim notices, and watches Sebastian fitfully rest in between coughing fits as his throat slowly swells.
There's no hiding the bruises beneath the crisp shirt collars. Jim smiles at new clients as they look to his shadow. They see the bruises of hands and the quick way that Sebastian dispatches the hidden guards in the room. No one could touch him if he didn't want it, they would think, and they would know only Jim could slay this beast at his back.
"Shall we talk, gentleman?" he asks, arms wide and inviting. A pleased smile grows as he hears, in the awe filled silence, Sebastian reloading his gun.